


A Study In Pink

by Spamateur



Series: Sherlock BBC Reader Insert [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Female!Reader - Freeform, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-23 02:29:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23004301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spamateur/pseuds/Spamateur
Summary: This is a repost of something I made literally years ago on Wattpad. You're a consulting detective in England whose power of deduction is above average, to say the least. One day while wrapping up a case, you find an old friend, John Watson. You team up quickly and also meet a strange, intriguing fellow named Sherlock Holmes. The three of you get involved in a string of serial suicides, and, well, the game is on!
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Reader
Series: Sherlock BBC Reader Insert [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1653283
Kudos: 35





	1. The Beginning

You were sitting in the park on a bench, fingers flying wildly across your blue flip-phone, not paying much attention to your surroundings. You'd come to the park in the first place to text Detective Spencer about the latest case was because you needed limited distractions. Fewer things to deduce so that you could best find the words to explain to Spencer's pitiful little brain why the cat was responsible for the victim's death, not the poor brother.

Suddenly you heard a vaguely familiar sounding (yet strangely different) pair of footsteps hesitated near you, then whisked away quickly. It had to be someone who recognized you but didn't want to strike conversation. Back home, it would have been a familiar situation, but here in London?

You finished up your text to Detective Spencer- who it should be mentioned was an officer back in Chelmsford, where you'd just been on an overseas case- quickly and looked up to see who it was that didn't want to see you.

"John!" You exclaimed, recognizing him with a start. He kept walking, the regular thunk of his cane against the pavement ringing out. "John Watson!"

This time, he stopped with an ill-conceived sigh, and turned to face you.

It took you a while to catch up. You'd met John while deployed in Afghanistan. Well, deployed was a rather formal word-- more like, you'd gotten annoyed at some of the government's methods and had flown out to set things straight yourself. He explained to you everything that had happened since you were last side by side, although nothing you hadn't already deduced. You could spare enough kindness, though, to let John tell you his story. You even refrained from mentioning his psychosomatic limp, although it required much effort.

As he talked, you started paying less and less attention, much less than you should've. And all of a sudden you were aware of an expectant silence from John.

"Uh- C- I-" you stammered, while looking for clues about John's body language to figure out what to say. "Couldn't... Harry help?" Harry was John's sister, one he'd mentioned in passing before. You'd stored that information away-- one can never be too certain whether certain facts will come in useful in the future.

John laughed without humor and shook his head. "As if," he muttered, looking down. You were a bit relieved to find that your reply was acceptable, even if you had no clue what John had been saying. After a bit of silence, the uncomfortable feeling in the air prompted John to go on. "I... I could get a flat share, but who would want me for a flatmate?"

You huffed in amusement.

John gave you a confused look. "What? What is it?" he asked.

"Well, I happen to know of someone looking for a flatmate- or, I know someone who knows someone. Apparently, he said the same thing. I hear he's quite the character."

"What's his name?"

You paused briefly, glancing at the ground, then up at John. "Sherlock Holmes."


	2. Sherlock Holmes

You and John walked into the cold hospital room. "Bit different than in my day," John was commenting.

You smiled, if our of nothing else but politeness. "Oh, you've no idea!"

You took a gander 'round the room, noticing a tall (181 cm, to be more specific) well-dressed man with black, gently curled hair sitting at the microscope. He looked up at the two of you briefly, then back down at whatever he was doing.

"Sorry, who are you?" You asked, taking off your coat and draping it over one arm. You scanned him slowly, taking in little details. His nails were in good condition. He quite obviously held himself high and yet did not value the opinion of others. He thought he was better than everyone else. Vaguely like you, only you considered yourself less... pompous. "Er, where's Molly?"

"She's getting coffee," The man muttered. "Friend of hers, are you? From out of town, too."

"Yes, but you're her friend, too," you replied. Obvious. You further deduced: "She likes you, actually. And you know it, but don't care much to humor her. If you hurt her feelings I'll-"

"Oh, emotions," he hissed, earning an bewildered look from John. "Who cares about those?"

"He's like you," said John frankly. "All... smart and stuff. And insensitive."

"Insensitive?" You pretended to be offended. "I do make an effort, you know."

Then the door opened, and you and John stepped away from it as Molly came in. "Oh, here's my friend, Molly Hooper," you said to John as the door closed slowly.

"Oh hello!" Molly held out a hand awkwardly toward John, balancing two cups of coffee in a tray on her other hand.

"John Watson," John said as he shook it.

"Pleasure to meet you." Molly nodded. "Do you need something, (Y/N)?" She asked as walked to where the other man was sitting. "You're usually only here when you need something."

"Yes, well, actually, I came to ask you about the man you mentioned needing a flat share, because-"

"Oh, I see," the dark-haired man said, looking at the three of you. "That'd-" he stopped suddenly and gave Molly an unblinking stare. "You took off your lipstick."

"Yeah, well, if wasn't working for me," she replied nervously. "Really? I-" he broke off as you cleared your throat and gave him a warning glare. The man drew in a sharp breath, turning his blue-eyed gaze to you as if to say, _Like I said. Emotions._

Your only response was a raised eyebrow.

"Well, anyway, that'd be me. Sherlock Holmes. And I'm assuming this man here is another one needing a flatmate. So, Afghanistan or Iraq, you two?"

You narrowed your eyes. So, this man- Sherlock- was intelligent, at least by most standards. But was he really as clever as you?

"Sorry, what?" John asked. "How'd you know-"

"You know, before I answer that, can I borrow your phone? I need to send a text."

John looked at you questioningly and you nodded. He took his phone out of his pocket and reached over to give it to Sherlock, who flipped it in the air casually.

"As I was saying," Sherlock muttered, "Afghanistan... or Iraq?"

"Molly, did you mention Afghanistan to Mr. Holmes?" you asked slowly, still doubtful that Sherlock had figured it out on his own. Well, it was rather obvious, but most people were too stupid to notice the obvious. Also, what kind of _name_ was _Sherlock?_

"Not a word," she replied.

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" John asked.

Sherlock ignored him. "How do you feel about the violin?" He didn't wait for a reply and went on, "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it." As Sherlock spoke, he threw on his coat while simultaneously typing on John's phone and walked toward the door. "We'll meet there tomorrow, 7:00. Sorry, got to dash- I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

"Is that it?" John said, turning around to face him as Holmes opened the door to leave.

"Is that what?" Sherlock closed the door and took a step back to look at Watson.

"We've only just met, and we're going to look at a flat?"

Sherlock's cold eyes looked you up and down, then back at John. "Problem?"

John smiled with a look that said _Is this guy serious?_ "We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting, I don't even know who you are, and I've only just learned your name."

"I know you're an army doctor, and you and your friend have come from Afghanistan not long ago. I know you, Watson, have a brother who's worried about you-"

You smirked. Harry was John's sister, not his brother, which is one reason you were amused, but you were also secretly excited to meet someone you knew was at least halfway clever, like you.

"..but you won't go to him for help," Sherlock continued, "because you don't approve of him. Possibly because he's an alcoholic and more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, quite rightly, I'm afraid, and your friend knows as well. I know that she is coming from Chelmsford and has actually visited London quite often, which is why she's a good friend to my colleague Molly Hooper, but now something's different; she might even be looking to move in somewhere in London." Sherlock took a deep breath. "That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" He made his way back to the door once again- you noticed the color of his scarf for the first time, which matched your phone. Before he left, he leaned around the edge of the door.

"The address is 221B Baker Street." Sherlock winked- you couldn't tell if it was aimed at you or John- (possibly both, you decided) and he left, uttering a goodbye on his way.

Altogether, he left a strong impression. Sherlock Holmes was a genius. You couldn't suppress a smile. This was going to be _fun._


	3. 221B Baker Street

"He's always like that," Molly said quietly after Sherlock left. Her brown eyes fluttered around the room. She was trying to think- always an amusing attempt for normal people to make. "Reminds me of you, (Y/N.)"

She met your eyes with a little smile. Oh, this poor girl. She liked Sherlock a _lot,_ didn't she? You took a sharp breath and turned to John.

"Shall we be off, then?" He asked, leaning on his cane.

"Indeed we shall," you replied, opening the door for him. "See you, Molly."

"Bye, (Y/N)! Love you!" she called back. "I-in a completely platonic way, of course!" she stammered. You sighed. Molly was your... _friend-_ and you didn't have many of those- but she could be insanely awkward sometimes. 

As the two of you walked down the hall, you noticed John looking through the most recently sent texts, while also unsuccessfully trying to keep you from seeing the screen. It read, 'Arrest if brother has a green ladder."

"So, before you ask, yes, he is indeed smart. Wonderful observation." Your tone was not sarcastic, but you knew John would perceive it as so anyway. "And it seems he solves crimes as well... Like me."

John nodded. "Never thought I'd meet someone else with the... deducing thing. Let's look him up, shall we?"

The next day, you and John were walking to 221B together. Well, you were walking, he was... limping, like a hedgehog with a splinter in one paw. (What? Nothing.) The two of you arrived at a tall black door and John reached over to bang on it with the knocker. 

"Hello," a familiar low-tonedvoice said behind you. Your companion and you turned around to see Sherlock Holmes.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes," John said.

"Sherlock, please," he said, glancing at you at first with a small smirk, but it quickly morphed into what you thought was a displeased expression. He reached out to shake John's hand.

"Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive." You could tell that John wasn't too excited about that part, and sensed that Holmes also noticed John's reluctance.

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she's given me a special deal," Sherlock reassured him. As he spoke, he glanced at you for what must have been the sixth time since he arrived. This time, you caught his eye and gave him a bored, questioning look. "Yes, sorry," Sherlock said. "What are you doing here, erm- What's your name?"

"Oh, I suppose I never told you. I'm (F/N) (L/N). And Mrs. Hudson is actually my aunt, so I thought I'd accompany my friend Watson and say hi to her."

"Yes, well." Sherlock broke your locked stare and continued to John, "She owes me a favor. Her husband was sentence to death in Florida a while back. I helped out."

"You... stopped her husband from being executed?" John asked uncertainly as you shook your head. As you recalled, your aunt's husband was very _dead_. You had no idea this Sherlock fellow had been the one to make sure of that, though.

Sherlock smiled softly. "Oh, no. I _ensured_ it." 

Suddenly, the door opened. Aunt Hudson came out and saw you. "(Y/N)!"

You grinned. "Hello, hello!" you greeted as the two of you came in for a hug. Sherlock looked slightly disturbed.

"Well, what're you doing here, dear? Do you know Sherlock?"

"We've only just met, Aunt Hudson," you answered. "It's a funny story, actually. I hope you don't mind that I won't bother to tell it, especially since the only one that will really even pretend to find it funny is you, and only out of unnecessary politeness that I'd like to remind you is not really productive with someone, like me, who knows that such facades are wastes of time. " Mrs. Hudson blinked at you. "Oh, also, I'm in London because-"

"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson laughed as Sherlock frowned at you, not dissaprovingly. "I forgot! You've come to live in London! Well, how was your visit to Chelmsford? Do you think, since you're looking for a place anyway, you could stay with me for a while? Just to help around the place?"

"Oh. Of course, Aunt Hudson," you replied uncertainly. Sherlock's uncomfortable stance mimicked yours and John looked between the two of you with the slightest smile on his face.

"Lovely," she murmured with a sweet smile. "It'll be delightful to see how you two get along, Sherlock and (Y/N). Clever what you are. Anyhow, let me show you all in."

She led John inside, and both you and Sherlock took a step in as well at the same time. He stopped to let you past, though obviously annoyed.

Sherlock and John went upstairs to the room for rent, but you followed your aunt into the downstairs room as she told you about how much she missed you. You told her about John, which actually made her a bit stressed, poor soul, because she realized she hadn't introduced herself to him. She made her way upstairs with you following. You paused by the door, untied your black scarf and trench coat and hung them on a hook together. 

"What do you think, then, Dr. Watson?" she asked once she had reached the top of the stairs. How slow she'd been getting up the stairs bothered you extremely. Old people and their joints and such, blah blah blah. "There's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

This comment made you laugh, although Sherlock seemed unfazed. "Oh course we'll be needing two," John said, startled and a bit annoyed.

"Oh, no need to worry, we've got all sorts here. Mrs. Turner next dear has married ones!"

Watson looked at you with wide eyes, and you smiled slyly back. He wouldn't know, but Hudson was just pulling his leg. 

Aunt Hudson's attention was drawn to the messy kitchen. She sighed with exaggerated sadness and went to clean it up.

You stepped away from the door and into the room, making your presence more prominent. "We looked you up last night," you mentioned to Sherl.

"Anything interesting?" He asked in response, feigning casualty in his tone.

You didn't really care to answer that question, as it was obvious that Sherlock knew what would come up if he was searched, and he was anticipating John's (and perhaps yours) expressions of either distaste or bewilderment, possible even expecting you to be impressed. At the very least, hoping that you would. "You know full well-"

"Of course I do, I'm not an idiot. So, tell me, what did you two find?"

John sat down on a couch facing away from the kitchen with a grunt. "We, uh, found your website... 'The Science of Deduction.'"

"What did you think?" Sherlock asked carefully. His face took on a hopeful smile which he quickly tried to cover up with a plain expression, but you noticed. And he noticed you noticed, because his now greenish-blue eyes flashed in your direction, showing a hint of embarrassment. _Heterochromia_ , you realized.

John pursed his lips. Sherlock frowned, and his disappointed eyes reminded you of a child.

You tsked. "You made a few bold claims, regarding your powers of deduction, that John finds suspicious. He's only ever really known one clever person, you know."

The side of Sherlock's mouth twitched as he turned to face you. "Oh? Who?"

"Me."

"I could read his military career in his face and his leg, and his brother's drinking habits from his mobile phone," he boasted.

"How?" you asked. "I mean, I know how I could. But how did you?"

That's when Aunt Hudson came in with a newspaper she'd grabbed from the kitchen. "These suicides, Sherlock? They look right up your street!"

"What about me?" You asked, almost hurt- your aunt knew that you helped out the police force back in Chelmsford. You wished you could take back the words immediately, realizing that they sounded childish.

"Oh, yes, you too," Mrs. Hudson rushed to console you. "Three, exactly the same."

Movement out the window caught your eye. "Four."

"Pardon?"

Sherlock followed your gaze. "There's been a fourth," he smiled. "And there's something different this time."

"A fourth?" John echoed.

Neither you nor Sherlock answered him. You were still looking out the window, but Sherlock was facing the door. "Where?" I said

"Brixton," another voice answered out of breath. You turned around. Detective Inspector, recently divorced, dyed hair to try to seem younger. Self-conscious about weight, trying to lose it. Your train of thought began to drift and you wondered if he wouldn't look better with gray hair. "Lauriston gardens."

"What's new?" You asked. "You wouldn't have come to get me-- er, Sherlock, if there wasn't something different about this one."

Sherlock laughed about the way you'd replaced his name with yours. You knew that he just deduced that you also helped out the police force back in Chelmsford. Meanwhile, the Detective Inspector paused to look at you, doubtless wondering who on Earth you were, but he evidently decided he didn't have time to dwell on you now.

"Well, you know how they never leave notes?" Even though he was answering your question, his response was aimed at Sherlock. "This one did. Will you come?"

"Who's on forensics?" Sherlock inquired, narrowing his eyes.

"... Anderson."

Sherlock sighed, looking back out the window and shaking his head. "He won't work with me."

"Well, he won't be your assistant!"

Holmes huffed. "I _need_ an assistant, Lestrade." Sherlock turned to you. "Okay fine, you'll be my assistant."

"What?" You scoffed. "No."

"Just think about it."

"Will you come?" Lestrade repeated, more desperately this time.

Sherlock looked down at his shoes, considering it. "Not in a police car. I'll be right behind."

Lestrade turned to walk out, but paused. "Thanks." He left. John still hadn't fully comprehended what was happening, poor thing.

As soon as the door to the flat shut, Sherlock broke into a smile. "Brilliant! Yes! Oh, it's _Christmas."_ His voice on the word Christmas turned into a sort of low, joyous growl of excitement. "Mrs. Hudson," he said, doing one full spin of happiness which astounded you, "I'll be late- might need some food."

"I'm your landlady, dear- _not_ your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson told him, slightly irritated. Quite right.

"Something cold will do," Sherlock called as he grabbed his coat and started walking out. He seemed to ignore your aunt's objection, which made you annoyed with him, but if Sherlock noticed, he didn't say anything. "John, have a cuppa, make yourself at home!" he called as he ran downstairs. The door swung shut behind him.

Mrs. Hudson sighed. "I'll make you that cuppa, dear. You rest your leg," she said with a sympathetic look toward John.

His expression hardened, but you coughed loudly and gave him a warning look when he looked your way.

John exhaled loudly. "Sometimes this bloody leg ..."

"I understand, dear, I've got a hip," your aunt commented.

John, frustrated, said with a tight voice "A cup of tea would be lovely, thank you."

"Just this once. I'm not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson chided.

"Yes, you've said that," you called back at her. "And John'll be wanting some biscuits too, by the way!"

"Not a housekeeper!"

You shook your head with a smile and sat down on the armrest of the chair opposite John. He picked up a newspaper, still worked up about his leg and using the paper as a distraction to keep himself from being bothered by you. The way you could always tell what he was thinking unnerved him, but you were clever, just like Sherlock, and there wasn't anything that could be done, especially since you had known John for so long.

John suddenly frowned at something in the paper.

"What? What is it?" you asked, sitting up with sudden interest.

"You're a doctor," a satisfying, low voice said at the door, before John could respond. Sherlock was back. "In fact, you're an Army doctor."

"Oh, I thought you'd worked that out already," you muttered under your breath. 

"Any good?" Sherlock asked John.

"Yeah. _Very_ good."

"Seen a lot of injuries, I assume. Violent deaths."

"Well ... yes," John murmured. It bothered you that he was being made to bring up memories that he tried to bury before.

"Bit of trouble, too, I bet."

"'Course. Yes. We both," he added, glancing at you, "have seen ... enough for a lifetime. Far too much."

Sherlock considered John with a moment of silence. "Want to see some more?"

"Now hold on-" you interrupted, but were interrupted yourself.

"Yes. God, yes," John replied with startling certainty.

Sherlock smiled the faintest smile, and turned around without another word. "I did, if I remember correctly, make an you an offer to be my assistant, (L / N)," Sherlock said.

"I'm coming, too, but only for John, and I am _not_ your assistant," you snapped, moving past him through the door and down the stairs to grab your coat.

You didn't wait for them, instead immediately calling a taxi. Soon enough, Sherlock and John followed behind, and you managed to catch the last thing that was said as they came out.

"The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!"


	4. A Rather Alarming Shade of Pink

The three of you got into the cab, with you squished in in the middle. John, to your right, turned to look at Sherlock and you multiple times, opening his mouth to say something each time, but deciding against it. Finally you could stand his depressingly obvious obliviousness no more. "You have questions?" you prodded.

"Yes. Er, where are we going?"

"Crime scene," Sherlock answered instead of you, and rather shortly. "Next?"

"What do... you do, exactly?"

"Same as (Y/N). I assist the police- I'm a consulting detective. I thought I was the only one," Sherlock added, looking at you with a sense of admiration but a hint of personal pride.

"Police don't consult amateurs..."

You gave John a look of approval, while Sherlock's was one of disappointment and annoyance. "How many times...? Okay," Sherlock said, taking a deep breath. His next words were voiced with incredible speed. "When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said Afghanistan or Iraq- you looked surprised. ' _How did you know?'_ I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut and the way you hold yourself says military. The conversation as you came into the room said trained at Bart's, so, army doctor, obvious. Your face is tanned, but not tan above the wrists. All physical observations mentioned before are those shared by both you and (Y/N), and a few I'll make right now- I'm sure that as I say them, John, you'll be able to make the connections between you and your _friend._ Not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair, like you've forgotten about it. So at least partly psychosomatic, so the original circumstances were traumatic; wounded in action. Wounded in action? Suntan? Afghanistan or Iraq."

It took John a few moments to soak that all in, but you were bothered by one part. "You said... he has a therapist?"

"He's psychosomatic, of course he has a therapist. But then there's his brother. John, your phone. It's expensive- email enabled, mp3 player- but you're looking for a flatshare; You wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then. Scratches- not one, many. It's been in the same pockets as keys, coins- the man sitting next to me wouldn't treat this item like this, so it's had a previous owner."

"Next bit's easy," you said. "You know it already, John."

John nodded. "The engraving."

"Harry Watson," Sherlock recalled. 

"Clearly belonging to a family member who's given you their old phone," you explained. "Not a parent-- no baby boomer would have a clue how to manage it-- and you're a war hero of sorts, who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got extended family, certainly not one you're close to."

"But you already know all this, (Y/N)" John said. "You know me."

"True, but the signs are still quite obvious, John. I'd observe these things about you even if we'd only just met."

"Indeed," Sherlock said. "My turn. Now, Clara, who's Clara? Knew a Clara once. Three kisses says romantic attachment, but the expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. And it's been given to you recently; this model's only six months old. Marriage's in trouble then- only six months old, just given away? If she left him, he would've kept it- people do, you know, sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her." Sherlock stopped for a breath, then continued. "He gave the phone to you, that says you want to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, and you're not going to your brother for help? Stop smiling, (Y/N), it makes me aware of your existence, which is rather annoying. John, this says you have problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife. Maybe you _don't_ like his drinking."

"How... can... you _possibly_ know about the drinking?" John asked, overwhelmed.

"Shot in the dark."

"Good one, though," you commented. "The scratch marks around the power plug- every night, your sibling goes in to charge it, but their hands are shaking." You deliberately kept your pronouns gender-neutral, testing whether Sherlock would notice.

"Never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without it," Sherlock cut in. "See, you were right."

John raised his eyebrows. " _I_ was right?"

"Police _don't_ consult amateurs."

John blinked. "...That was... amazing."

"You think so?" you asked.

"Of course it was," John replied, a wide grin spreading across his face. "It was extraordinary."

Sherlock looked out the window. "That's, uh, not what people normally say."

"What do they normally say?"

Sherlock considered it. "Piss off."

Later, the cab stopped at an empty street. You stepped out with John on one side of the cab, Sherlock on the other, and he led you all toward the caution tapes surrounding the building in front of you.

"Did I get everything wrong?" Sherlock asked as the three of you walked.

"You were pretty much right..." John answered. "About most everything."

"Lovely. I didn't expect to get everything right."

"Good, 'cause you didn't," you said, amused.

"Oh?"

"Harry's short for Harriet."

Sherlock stopped suddenly, but you and John kept walking. You made no effort to disguise the smile on your face.

"Harry's his sister," Sherlock growled.

"Yep," you said, still walking away, and popping the 'p' in 'yep.'

"His _sister!_ " he hissed. He resumed walking, quickly catching up with the two of you. "There's always _something._ "

"So, what are we doing here?" John asked, ducking under the caution tape as Sherlock held it up. Sherlock let the caution tape go as soon as John was on the other side, leaving you to lift it up for yourself. He gave you a sly smile as they walked away and he didn't answer John's question. 

The end of the caution tape was attached to a police car, and an attractive woman with large curly hair stepped out. "What're you doing here, freak?"

"I'm here to see Detective Lestrade," Sherlock replied simply.

"Why?"

"I _think_ he wants me to take a _look."_ Sherlock scowled.

 _"_ Well you know what I think, don't you?"

"Always, Sally." Sherlock took a deep breath, then frowned. "I know you didn't make it home last night." Without another word, he stepped away, and you and John followed, but she held up an arm to stop you.

"Who're these people?" she asked Sherlock.

"Colleagues of mine, Dr. Watson and Miss (L/N). Meet Sally Donovan... old _friend,"_ Sherlock sneered.

"Colleagues?" Donovan asked incredulously. "How do _you_ get a 'colleague?' Wai- did they follow you home?"

John looked uncomfortable. "Maybe if I just waited-"

You grabbed his arm as he turned to go. "No."

There was a moment of silence, but then Donovan raised a walkie-talkie to her mouth and said, "Freak's here. Bringing him in. He brought a girlfriend and some man."

"Don't be ridiculous," you said. "I-"

"Shut up." Sherlock furrowed his brow. "You'll only encourage her."

Donovan led the three of you to the door of the building, where people in suits were walking in and out. A pompous looking man was among one to step out. He took off his gloves in an angry manner and glared at Sherlock.

"Ah, Anderson. Here we are again." 

"It's a crime scene, I don't want it contaminated," Anderson spat. "Are we clear on that?"

"Quite," Sherlock hissed back. "And is your wife away for long?"

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out, someone told you that."

"No," you put in. John gave you a questioning look. "Your deodorant told him that."

"My _deodorant_?" 

"It's for men," Sherlock supplied.

"Well of course it is!" Anderson was appalled. "I'm wearing it!"

Sherlock smiled smugly. "So's Sergeant Donovan."

Anderson and Donovan exchanged alarmed looks, and you couldn't hide your smirk. "And I believe it just vaporized," you said. "Can we go in now?"

You didn't wait for a reply, only strode across the concrete and into the house. On the way, John looked at Donovan and opened his mouth as if to say something, but thought the better of it and simply moved along.

Sherlock slipped past you on the stairs, but only because you stopped to help John up the steps. As unnecessary as his limp was, he allowed it to hinder himself, so the least you could do was help. When you got to the room at the top, Lestrade was talking with Sherlock. He saw you and John. "Er, who's this?"

"They're with me," Sherlock stated simply, to which Lestrade restated his question. Sherlock repeated, "I _said_ they're with _me._ "

Lestrade sighed and reached for a blue suit to put on. John reached for one as well and began to put it on. "Aren't either of you going to wear one?" he asked.

You and Sherlock gave him an annoyed look at the same time.

After John had his suit on, Lestrade caught Sherlock up on the case. You wanted desperately to interrogate him, but let Sherlock ask all the questions about the victim- Jennifer Wilson- as this was not your turf. You knew, though, that it would probably be a good idea to get used to London.

Lestrade led you all into an strangely empty room- Well, empty except for a dead lady wearing clothes all the same alarming shade of pink.

The blonde woman lied face-down with the letters R A C H E scrawled out on the wooden floor beside her. Everyone stood in silence for a few seconds, just looking at the body.

"Shut up," Sherlock snapped suddenly.

"I didn't say anything!" Lestrade defensively replied.

He rolled his eyes eyes. "You were thinking."

Sherlock stepped up to the body and observed it, pulling out his magnifying glass here and there, giving a frown or a smile every once or so often, and took off some of the lady's jewelry, holding it up the the light and inspecting it. You stood nearby, watching, while the other two hung back. 

"Got anything?" Lestrade asked. 

Sherlock muttered, "Not much."

"She's German," Anderson's voice put in by the door. He was leaning against the door frame.You looked up at him with a look that he must have interpreted to be bewilderment at his deduction. In a way, it was, but you were really just wondering how stupid he'd have to be to come to that conclusion. His next words were full of pride. " _Rache._ It means revenge. She could be trying to tell us somethi-"

"Yes, thank you for your input!" You said kindly, with a friendly smile, while closing the door in his face. You turned back to the others. 

"She's German?" Lestrade asked.

"Obviously not," you replied, like to even suggest the possibility was ridiculous.

"From out of town, though," muttered Sherlock. He scrolled through his phone. "She intended to stay for one night before returning home to Cardiff." He pocketed the phone. "So far, so obvious."

"Sorry, o-obvious?" John stammered. "What about the message?"

Sherlock ignored both questions, but said, "Dr. Watson, Miss (L/N), what do you think?"

You were about to speak, but John didn't understand what was wanted of him. "About the message?"

"No, the body," you answered.

"No, no-" Lestrade put in. "We, uh, have a whole team outside, they can-"

"They won't work with me," Sherlock sighed.

"I'm breaking every rule letting _you_ in here," Lestrade protested.

"Yes, because you need him," you said. You gave him a sympathetic look. 

Lestrade pursed his lips, massaging his temple. "Yes, I do," he admitted quietly. "God help me, I do." His eyes rested on the floor. He seemed almost ashamed.

"Dr. Watson! Ms. (L/N!)" Sherlock recited. His cold eyes- gray now, you noticed- looked between the two of you. John turned toward Lestrade as if asking for permission. "Oh, do what he says," Lestrade mumbled. "Help yourself." He seemed to rather give up as he went out the door. You heard Lestrade's voice telling Anderson to keep everyone out for a few.

As soon as the door closed, you rushed closer to the body. John limped over as well, and bent down with a painful grunt. He laid down his cane. 

"Well?" Sherlock asked expectantly. John said, helplessly, "What am I doing here?"

"Helping prove a point," you told him. To which he replied,

"I'm meant to help pay the rent."

"Well, this is more _fun_ ," Sherlock smirked. His intelligent gray eyes shined shined with excitement. 

"Fun?" John objected. "There's a woman lying dead."

"Well, it's a perfectly sound analysis," you commented, "But I think you can go a little deeper than that, my dear Watson." Lestrade stepped back in from outside, crossing his arms and watching as John begrudgingly looked over the body.

He sighed and sat back. "Um, asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. Could've been a seizure. Possibly drugs."

"You know what is was, you've read the papers," you sighed. The serial suicides had been front-page news for days now.

"Well, she's one of the four suicides," John muttered.

The idea of serial suicides was strange. Normally, the police would call them copycat suicides and be done with it, but each of the victims had no depressive tendencies, no correlation, and plenty in life to look forward to. Which was exactly why they weren't suicides. You (and Sherlock, you supposed) just had to prove to the police why.

"Sherlock, I'll need anything you got now," said Lestrade.

"Victim is in her late thirties," he announced, standing up. You nodded in agreement as he went on. "Professional person, going by her clothes."

"Something in the media, most likely," you added, straightening out your coat as you stood as well. "Going by the rather alarming shade of pink. "She traveled from Cardiff today intending to stay in London for one night, judging by the size of her suitcase."

"Suitcase?" Lestrade echoed, frowning.

Sherlock nodded. "Suitcase, yes. She's been married 10 years at least, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers, none of which who knew she was married."

Lestrade seemed overwhelmed. He raised his voice and said, "I swear, if you're just making this up-!"

"Her wedding ring is ten years old, at least," you explained impatiently.

Sherlock nodded, then said something you hadn't noticed: "The rest of her jewelry is regularly cleaned, but not the ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside is shinier than the outside; That means it's regularly removed. Only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. Not for work, look at her nails. She does not work with her hands. So what or rather who does she remove her ring for? Not one lover, clearly she couldn't entertain the idea of being single for that long, so more likely a string of them. Simple."

"Brilliant!" John gaped. You and Sherlock blinked at him. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"But Cardiff?" Lestrade asked. 

"Obvious," Sherlock said.

John stared at him with bewilderment and disbelief. "Not obvious to me."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, exasperated. "For goodness' sake, what is it _like_ in your silly little minds? It must be so boring." He shook his head. "Her _coat_."

"Be nice, Sherlock," you warned. 

Sherlock took a deep breath and said, slightly nicer this time, "It's damp. She's been in heavy rain the last few hours. No rain in London in that time. Her coat collar is damp too, especially under, so she's turned it up against the wind, but her umbrella is dry. So, where has there been heavy rain and high winds in the last few hours?" He flipped open his phone and showed Lestrade the screen. You didn't need to see it to know what is showed: A weather report confirming such weather in none other than... "Cardiff."

"Fantastic!" John exclaimed.

"You never say that when I'm being all smart," you muttered.

Sherlock gave you a sideways smile. "Jealous?" He stuffed his phone back into the inner pocket of his black trenchcoat.

"I'll- I'll stop doing that out loud," John said.

"No, no," Sherlock responded quickly. "It's... fine."

"There's one thing, though," Lestrade put in quietly. "There's no suitcase."

You looked up. Sherlock drew in a quick breath. "Say that again?"

"No suitcase. She wasn't found with any suitcase, Sherlock."

_Wrong._ That _had_ to be wrong-- she had to have a suitcase. You stepped out of the room and called out, "Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase?"

"There's no case!" Lestrade repeated forcefully. 

"But that doesn't make _sense,_ " Sherlock snapped. "They take the poison themselves, they chew, they swallow the pills themselves- it- it does't make sense! There are clear signs, even _you_ lot couldn't miss them!" Turning on his heel, Sherlock rushed out the door-- giving a passing glare to Anderson as he went-- and rushed downstairs.

"Yeah, right, thanks, _and!?"_ Lestrade demanded after him.

Sherlock stopped at the bottom of the stairs and replied to Lestrade more quietly, "It's murder, all of them. I don't know how. But they're not suicides; they're killings. Serial killings." He smacked his hands together and a smile slowly spread across his face. "We've got ourselves a serial killer- I love those! Her case! Come on, where is it? Did she eat it?" He paused for a breath. "Someone else was here, and they took her case." He paused as realization dawned on him. "So, the killer must have driven her here, forgot the case was in the car. Couldn't have left it at a hotel, she color coordinates everything about her style, she'd never have left a hotel with her hair looking like that. Her lipstick and her shoes..." He gasped. "Oh. _Oh!"_

"Sherlock?" Watson asked.

You chuckled. "Serial killers, always hard," you said. "You have to wait for a mistake."

"We can't just _wait_ ," objected Lestrade.

You laughed again. "We don't have to! Look at her, really look! Houston, we _have_ a mistake!" The suitcase!

Sherlock nodded and ordered Lestrade to find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. To find Rachel.

"Okay, yeah, but what mistake!?" Lestrade shouted down the stairs as Sherlock went out the door. He stepped back in, looked up at all three of you with a wild look in his eyes, and shouted, " _Pink!"_

With a slam of the door, Sherlock was gone. Lestrade's expression was wearied; it seemed that he had to put up with behavior like this from Sherlock all the time.

Anderson was the one to take action. "Alright, let's get on with it!" he shouted, herding up the other forensics officers and sending them downstairs. Some rudely pushed aside you and John on their way. Normally, you would have been very angry at them, but right now you were more worried for John. He looked embarrassed. 

"Come on, then, John," you said when Anderson's team had finally filed out. "Let's go." And you helped him on his way as he limped down the stairs.

As the two of you exited the building, you noticed how busy it all was, as if Sherlock's presence made everyone have some new purpose. John was scanning the area for Sherlock. You shook your head at him sympathetically. 

"He's gone," came a voice from behind; Donovan. 

"Sherlock Holmes?" asked John.

"Yeah," Sally said. She looked between the two of you sardonically. "He just took off. He does that."

"Is he coming back?" John asked you.

"Obviously not," you replied. "We'll have to go get a cab. Come along, John."

You guided him out of the crime scene. He looked humiliated, and you knew that he wanted to apologize for his leg, but didn't actually want to bring it up with you. 

Before you got very far with him, Sally called, "Hey."

The two of you turned, and she went on. "You're not his friends," she said. "Sherlock Holmes does not have friends. So who are you?"

John grimaced. "I'm- I'm nobody. I only just met him."

"And you?" Sally asked, aiming her inquiry toward you.

"I'm the same. Dr. _Watson_ here is my friend," you stated matter-of-factly. 

"So neither of you are actually much connected to him?" She asked for confirmation. You nodded. "Bit of advice, then," Donovan said. "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes."

"Why?" John asked. He took a step forward, ready to defend Sherlock. He was forming some sort of trust with Holmes. Some part of you felt vaguely appalled, especially when it had taken _you_ so long to become John's friend (and even then, more like friendly acquaintance). But it made sense. You brought the same genius, but Sherlock was the one who forced John into something the doctor was starving for: danger.

"He's not paid or anything," Sally explained. "He _likes_ it, to be here. He gets off on it. In fact, the weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? Once day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing round a body, and Sherlock Holmes will be the one who put it there." 

You gave a strained smile. "Oh?"

She nodded. "And you, miss. You're almost just the same. You especially should distance yourself from that psychopath. You'll get stuck like that."

You shook your head slowly, smiling with no humor. Her comment struck a little close to home. 

"He's a psychopath!" Sally insisted. "Psychopaths get bored."

"So do I," you replied menacingly, earning a stare from the disparaged woman. You winked to shake up her nerves a bit more.

"Donovan!" Lestrade called from across the street.

"Coming!" she called back, keeping a suspicious stare on you. Slowly, she turned to go, but left the parting words, "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes!"

You walked with John, your eyes on the ground as the lines in the cement passed. They did good to distract you, but sound of a telephone ringing did the job even better. You looked to the source of the noise: a telephone box to the side. It was outdated, possibly from the 50s, and a shade of blue that matched Sherlock's scarf and your phone. Curious. John and you ignored the phone and kept walking. It stopped ringing as soon as you passed.

"Peculiar," you muttered thoughtfully. But the two of you moved on to a busier part of the road. John tried to hail a taxi, but it drove right past him. You tried as well, to no avail.

"Something's up, isn't it?" John asked you. You didn't answer, but knew he was right. Moving a bit down the road, you two heard a phone started ringing again. John glanced behind you into a cramped convenience store, where a payphone was clearly the source of the noise. Someone reached to answer it, but a millisecond before their hand reached the phone, it stopped.

"Can't be a coincidence," you said to John. "Someone is trying to contact us."

John frowned. "But, that can't- No, that's stupid. That's impossible."

You raised an eyebrow to him. "Would I really be so presumptuous as to bring attention to something 'stupid and impossible'?"

" Okay, sorry. But..." he trailed off as you took off ahead to a nearby payphone. This one newer than the one before, possibly put into use in the late eighties or nineties, with a satisfying red coat of paint. Reminded you of Molly's lipstick the night before.

Right on cue, the phone rang loudly, and you stepped into the booth. You answered the phone. "Hello?"

A sharp, cold voice spoke. "There is a security camera at the top right corner of the building opposite you. See it?"

You squint to see, and make out in the darkness a camera. "I do. Who's speaking?"

"Watch," was all the voice said. The camera slowly turned away from the booth.

"Well, that's a bit dramatic."

At this point, John had reached the phone booth. He stepped in beside you, but you offered no explanation of what had happened so far.

"On the footbridge to your left is another camera," the voice said. "See it?"

You looked accordingly and saw the camera, pointing it out to John, who stared.

"And finally, on the top of the streetlamp two along, on your right." Just like before, the camera looked away.

"Why is it doing that?" John whispered. You shook your head in answer as ablack limo pulled up by the phone box.

"You and your companion get into the car," the cold voice ordered. "I'd make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you."

You started to laugh as the phone went dead. "Come on, John." You opened the door for him and the two of you stepped out. "Nothing to worry about. Someone wants to see us."

Out of the limo climbed a sharply-dressed man, who opened a door for the two of you. You gave John a helpless shrug. "What can we do?" you asked helplessly, smiling. "Let's go."

Still confused, he followed you in. In the limousine was a pretty brunette on her phone.

"...Hello," said John. She looked up with a pleasant smile. "Hi," she said, as the limo pulled away. She looked back down at her phone and started typing away.

John tried again. "So, what's your name?"

"Anthea." The woman was still typing.

"That's not her real name," you said to John, who seemed all too interested in the girl.

"Obviously!" She giggled.

Sometime later, "Anthea" was leading you and John out of the car and into a creepy deserted warehouse. In front of you all was a tall rusted door. She beckoned toward the door, so you barged right in. John limped in pursuit.

It was empty except for a man sitting in a chair with two similar chairs opposite him. He wore a fancy suit which looked quite strange in comparison to his dull surroundings. He was looking through a notebook and did not look up as you two walked in. 

"Have a seat, Dr. Watson and Ms (L/N)," he said. It was the same sophisticated voice from the phone. John stood his ground, but you stepped forward and plopped into a seat easily. You crossed your legs and relaxed, looking quite comfortable. A few seconds of silence passed by.

"You know," you said, "We've both got phones. I mean, it must have been exciting, the show you put on to get us here, but a bit unnecessary." A few more seconds of silence.

Then, for the first time, the man looked up. He inspected the two of you with a cold, calculating gaze. "When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet."

"No need for poetry," you said, rolling our eyes. You also noted as the man looked at you, that this man had the same bright green irises that Sherlock did occasionally, when they weren't a warm gray or sharp blue or some mixture of more than one color. A relative? Or a coincidence?

"Neither of you seem very afraid," the man commented. You looked back at John, who was trying to seem at ease, but you could tell he was very put off and even a bit angry.

"You don't seem very frightening," John replied stiffly.

"The bravery of the soldier.... Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?" remarked the man. "I refer to both of you when I say this, of course." He lay down the notebook in his lap. "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

"I don't have one," said John.

You sucked your teeth and chirped, "Only just met him yesterday, the two of us."

"Since then, you've moved in with him, and are now solving crimes together," growled the green-eyed fellow. In a more calm voice, he added, "Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

You sat up, dropping the comfortable and relaxed act. "Who _are_ you?"

"An interested party."

"Family, then," you said, sitting back in your chair. The man across from you looked alarmed, which confirmed your suspicions. 

"At the very least, not friends," John muttered. 

The other man smiled wistfully. "No, not really. You've met him. How many friends do you imagine he has? I'm the closest thing Sherlock Holmes is capable of having to a friend."

"Care to elaborate?

Sherlock's sibling, cousin, perhaps even young uncle, you decided, pursed his lips. "I'm his enemy."

John held back a laugh. "An _enemy?"_

"In his mind, certainly. If you asked him, he'd say his archenemy. He can never resist a touch of the dramatic."

"Unlike you?" You asked sarcastically. At the same time, John sneered, "Well, thank goodness you're above all that."

Suddenly, both yours and John's phones buzzed. John pulled out his and looked at the screen.

You narrowed the man down to either Sherlock's sibling or cousin. He said with a cold tone, "I hope I'm not distracting you."

"Not at all," you said for John. The man only gave you an annoyed look. "Do you plan to continue your association with my- with Sherlock Holmes?" he asked, exasperated.

You smiled. Nobody would say "my cousin" when mentioning someone of such a relation. However, "my brother" was as common in conversation as any other title in immediate family. So, that was it. This man was a Mr. Holmes, Sherlock's brother.

While you were thinking, John answered Mr. Holmes's inquiry, though it wasn't, admittedly, very much of an answer. He said, "Far as I remember- though I could be wrong- I _think_ that's none of your business."

"Let me get to the point," said Sherlock's brother. "I'll make you two an offer. I will pay a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis, to... ease your way."

John readjusted his cane, regarding Mr. Holmes with suspicion. "Why?"

"Because neither of you are very rich people."

"True. But in exchange for what?" you asked.

"Information." Seeing your suspicious reaction, he went on," Nothing indiscreet or that you'd be uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to."

"Why?"

Mr. Holmes revealed the wintriest smile. "I worry about him. Constantly."

Ignoring the obvious signs of stress arising in Mr. Holmes's eyes, you muttered, "How nice of you."

"I would prefer, for various reasons, that my concern went unmentioned. We have a difficult relationship."

You knew what your answer was to the elder Holmes brother's question, but looked at John, waiting for his reaction. John only looked at Mr. Holmes stonily. Then his and your phone beeped again, and he pulled it out to look.

Watson scanned the text. "No," he said, still looking at the phone.

"I haven't mentioned a figure."

"Don't bother," John sighed.

"....You're very loyal, very quickly."

John narrowed his eyes. "No, just not interested."

Mr. Holmes was silent for a moment. He glanced at you briefly, then picked up his notepad. "Trust issues, according to this," he muttered.

"What was that?" John voice suddenly lost its edge. 

"Can if be that you've chosen to trust Sherlock Holmes, of all people?"

"Who says I trust him?" John objected.

Mr. Holmes gave a mockingly helpless shrug. John angrily turned on his heels to head for the door.

"People have already told you to steer clear of Sherlock, but I can see from your left hand that that won't happen," the man blurted before John could even touch the door handle. John turned. "My what?"

Mr. Holmes stood. "Show me." John made his way slowly over to the Holmes brother and held out his left hand. Holmes reached out to touch it, but John pulled back. Holmes gave him an expectant look that said _Really?_ and reached for his hand again. 

****Holmes inspected John's hand coldly. "Your therapist things you're haunted by memories of your military service. Sack her, because she's got it the wrong way round. You've been under extreme stress this whole time, but your hand is perfectly steady. Not haunted by the war, then. You miss it." A mischievous glint flashed in his eyes. "Well, welcome back."

John was shocked. Holmes said, in his silence as well as yours, "Watson, you can return to the limousine now. I should like a word with your associate."

"(Y/N)?" 

"Go ahead," you told him quietly. "I'll be there in just a sec."

John hesitantly turned to go, paused, then continued. You waited until you could hear his cane no longer, then turned to Holmes.

"A number of things," you began. "First, I accept your offer. Second, I know you're Sherlock's brother. Third, yes, I'm not a complete idiot like everyone else save it for you and your brother, blah blah blah, hooray. "

The man narrowed his eyes. "I should mention that my name is Mycroft Holmes, since you already seem aware of my relation to Sherlock. Mention me to him and there _will_ be consequences." He inspected you with cold, calculating eyes. "You seem to know a lot about me. Shall I tell you what I know of you?"

"I don't need your _deductions,_ " you answered. "Just stay away from my friends."

"You're so much like Sherlock," Mycroft murmured wistfully. "He took drugs to alleviate his boredom, you know. Didn't end very well. I wonder what _you_ take to alleviate yours?"

"...." You folded your arms. Mycroft cleared his throat. "I know how to contact you; I have your number. Obviously. I will text you eventually, though you should know I prefer to call. Give me the promised information about my brother and I will send you money at regular intervals, as I said." 

"Yeah, whatever, chap," you said with a smirk. "I'll keep in touch." You turned to leave, but as you opened the door, you turned back to Mycroft one final time and said, "You know, it's adorable how much you care for him. I understand how you could grow attached to a loved one. So understand when I say John's my friend, nothing more, but I will protect him, whatever it takes."

Mycroft looked to the floor thoughtfully. "And I'll protect my brother, Miss (L/N). At all costs."

You left.


	5. The Game is On!

As soon as you entered the limousine next to Dr. Watson, you whipped out your phone and the car started moving. You saw the texts that had been sent.

**Come to 221B Baker Street if convenient. -SH**

**If inconvenient, come anyway. -SH**

**Could be dangerous. -SH**

You smiled and texted back, **On my way.**

Then you pocketed your phone. The next few minutes were spent in silence, until you caught John looking your way. You looked at him with an expression that invited him to state his mind.

"Were we technically just kidnapped?" he wondered.

On the other side of the limo, 'Anthea' paused her typing and leaned forward to give John a little smirk. You shot her a look, but she just winked before sitting back. You didn't answer John's question. The rest of the ride was spent in silence.

A while later, the limousine stopped by an unfamiliar building. "Where's this?" you asked.

"My place," John replied. Anthea stepped out the door to let John through. He limped inside the building and returned in a few minutes.

As he sat back down, you muttered, "Get your gun okay?"

"Yep," he said, popping the p but not doing well to hide his discomfort at your ability to deduce that he'd gotten his gun.

Anthea got in and the drive continued for a few more minutes. You didn't say a word, but John attempted to make small talk with Anthea. 

Son enough, the limo pulled up at 221B Baker Street. "Any chance you could _not_ tell your boss this is where we went?" John asked.

Anthea looked up. "Sure."

"She's already told him, John," you said. He just frowned and followed you out on your side of the car. The limo glided away.

"She has a girlfriend, you know," you said, once it was gone. "Although the relationship isn't too serious yet, as evidenced by the way she winked at me."

"She winked at _you_?" John asked, appalled. You frowned at him. "Sorry, that's not what I meant!" he exclaimed. "But... she's not straight?"

"No, she's not heterosexual."

John nodded slowly. "Yep. Just my luck."

As the two of you walked into the flat, he questioned quietly, "Was it really that obvious that I was trying to-?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

The two of you stepped into the room, which was dimly lit. Sherlock was sprawled out on the sofa with his eyes closed. His laptop lay on his chest.

One of Sherlock's sleeves was rolled up. He fiddled at something that you couldn't see at his forearm.

"What're you doing?" John asked.

Sherlock glanced irritably at John, then pulled back his arm to reveal three nicotine patches. "Helps me think," he explained. "Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brainwork!" 

"Good news for _breathing_ ," John muttered.

"Oh, _breathing,_ " scoffed Sherlock. "Who needs that?"

"Three patches?"

Sherlock smiled. "Well, it's a three patch problem."

"Sherlock, you asked us to come," you interjected. "Is it at all important?"

"Oh, yeah!" Sherlock swung his legs to the side of the couch and sat up. "Can I borrow someone's phone?"

You sighed. "John, could you? Mine's dead."

John pulled out his, shaking his head. "My bloody phone!" he exclaimed indignantly. "Mrs. Hudson has a phone, you know!"

"Well, I tried shouting, but she didn't hear," Sherlock defended himself.

"We were on the other side of London," you chided.

"There was no hurry. By the way, I know your phone's not dead," Sherlock said to you. "You just didn't want to take it out of your coat." You shrugged unapologetically in response.

"What's this about, the case?" John asked, seething as Sherlock's fingers raced wildly on the number pad of the phone.

" _Her_ case," Holmes clarified.

"The suitcase, yes. Murderer took her case. First big mistake," you said.

Sherlock nodded. He closed up John's phone and held it up for John to take.

John yanked it away. "...We just met a friend of yours," he said.

"A _friend_?" 

"An enemy."

"Oh! Which one?"

You shook your head in disbelief. "Sherlock Holmes..." His addiction to drama was ridiculous. 'Oh, which one?' Seriously?

"Your archenemy, apparently," John said.

Sherlock stared at the two of you now. Troubled. "Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

John nodded confirmation. "Of course, I declined."

"Obviously," you replied simultaneously. Sherlock grinned, but Watson looked betrayed.

"He's the most dangerous man you'll likely ever meet, you know," chuckled Sherlock. "But not my problem!"

"Mycroft didn't seem too dangerous," you commented.

Sherlock frowned at you. "How'd you learn his name?" he asked.

"Well, he told me." 

Sherlock was obviously disturbed by this. "Why would Mycroft do that? Mycroft wouldn't do that... unless..."

"What?"

Sherlock laughed, looking at John with an excited face. "She impressed him!" He turned to you. "You impressed him!" But when you smiled back, his own hardened. Sherlock cleared his throat. "You, er, yeah, must have impressed him somehow, which, in my experience, is very hard to do. He wouldn't have revealed his name otherwise; I know him."

You decided to change the subject. "What did you text?"

"What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street. Please come," Sherlock recited.

John stared. "You blacked out?"

"No, John," you responded with an annoyed sigh. "He's messaging the murderer. Didn't want to do it on his phone, there's always the chance that the murderer could find out it was him. It was on his website."

Sherlock stood up, looking at you from the corner of his eye. "Yes, true. So you read a bit more of it, then?" he asked as he headed to the kitchen. John limped over to the couch and plopped down. Sherlock returned from the kitchen with a wheeled pink case.

"Jennifer Wilson's case," you observed.

John seemed to choke on your words. " _What?_ " He swung his head round and stared at the case, clearly a little thrown.

"I _should_ mention I didn't kill her," Sherlock muttered. 

"I-I never said that you did," John stuttered. 

You tsked. "Why not? Given the text he just sent and the fact that he has the case, it'd be a perfectly logical assumption. And it's not new for people to assume he's the murderer."

Sherlock squinted at you. "How could you possibly know that?"

"Because the same thing happens to me all the time."

"O _kay..._ " John blinked. The air in the room was tainted with awkwardness. "So, wait, Sherlock, how did you get this?"

"By looking. The killer had to have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He'd only keep her case by accident, if it was in a car. No one could be seen with this case without drawing attention, particularly a man."

"Which is statistically likely," you put in.

"Yes. So, obviously he'd want to get rid of it the second he realized he had it- wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize the mistake. I checked every back street wide enough for a car within five minutes of Lauriston Gardens and looked for anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip."

"And..." John frowned. "You got all that cos you realized the case would be pink?"

"Had to be pink," you told him as if it were obvious- which, to you, it was.

"Of course. Why didn't I think of that?" John's voice dripped with sarcasm, but Sherlock's response did not:

"Because you're an idiot."

"Sherlock!" you objected.

"Don't look at me like that, (Y/N); Practically everyone else is." Sherlock moved on. "Now, look. Do you see what's missing? _From her case? How could I? Oh, Sherlock, do explain! You're so smart and wonderful and better than everyone else!_ Thank you, I will! Her _PHONE_! Where's her mobile phone? Wasn't on the body, wasn't in the case. She must _have_ one; I just texted it."

"Maybe... she left it at home," John offered.

"She had a string of lovers and was careful about it!" scoffed Sherlock. "She'd _never_ leave it at home."

"So why did you send that text?"

"Obvious," you said. "Where's her phone now? The murderer could have it. Maybe she left it in his car when she left her case, or perhaps he took it for some reason, but the balance of probability is leaning toward the assumption that the murderer has her phone."

"You- technically, I- just texted a murderer? What good does that do-?"

John's phone suddenly rang. He looked at the number on the screen, then his eyes went to the luggage tab on the case.

"A few hours since his last victim," you murmured, listening to it ring, "and now he's got a text that can only be from her. Now, someone who'd just found the phone would ignore such a text, but the murderer..."

The phone stopped ringing, and Sherlock's eyes lit up.

Yours and Sherlock's eyes met. He finished your sentence for you. "Would panic." 

Sherlock slammed the pink case shut and rushed to grab a lapel. "Shouldn't we call the police?" asked John. 

"Four people are dead- there's no time to speak to police," replied Sherlock.

"So... why are you talking to me?" 

Sherlock paused and glanced at the mantle across the room sadly. "Mrs. Hudson took my skull."

"Pity," you muttered sarcastically. "So we're basically filling in for your skull?"

"Don't worry, you're doing a fabulous job." Sherlock threw on his coat. "Well?"

"Well, what?" John grumbled.

"Well, you could just sit there and watch the telly while (Y/N) went down to help Mrs. Hudson with her midnight soothers, _or...."_ He raised his eyebrows at both you and John. "I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. Skull just attracts attention, so...."

"I usually work alone," you admitted hesitantly. "But I'll come. John?"

John nodded, his jaw set.

Sherlock's eyes twinkled. He was getting quite excited for what lay ahead. A wonderful compelling adventure about the serial murders that had puzzled Scotland Yard for so long? Brilliant. 

John smiled to himself. "Sergeant Donovan said... said you get off on this sort of thing. You _and_ (Y/N) do, actually. You two enjoy it."

Sherlock smirked. "Well, _I_ said dangerous.... and here you are." He went out.

The three of you emerged from 221B. Sherlock was striding ahead, while you hung back with John, who was hurrying to catch up. "Northumberland Street is five minutes walk from here!" Sherlock called back at the two of you. 

"He thinks the murder is stupid enough to go there," John remarked snidely. 

"No, he's not stupid enough, but _brilliant_ enough," you told him. "Love the brilliant ones. So desperate to get caught!"

"Oh, you're sick. I can't believe you enjoy this. Why would the murderer show up?"

"Appreciation! Applause!" you shouted, spreading your arms theatrically. "At long last, the spotlight! Life is but a walking shadow, a poor player who struts and frets his time upon the stage!" You turned to face John, walking backwards now. "That's the frailty of genius, John. It needs an audience."

John smiled cynically. "Yeah. I can see that."

You gave him an amused knowing smile, and turned back around to face the direction you were walking to find that Sherlock was staring right at you. He quickly looked away.

\--

The trio was walking into a humble Italian restaurant. You were reiterating, "Y'know, I keep telling you. It makes perfect sense. The one who can hunt in the middle of a crowd without anyone being bothered, though, is a cab drive-"

"Sherlock!" A delighted voice boomed. You looked over to see, to your displeasure, a stranger grinning at Holmes. "Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free. All on the house," the man said. "For you, and your... dates."

"I'm not anyone's date!" John objected.

"Got this man off a murder charge," Sherlock said in an almost bragging manner to you and John. "Proved that Angelo here was in a completely different part of town at the time of the killing, house-breaking. Anything happening opposite?" he asked the man.

Angelo winked. "We' been keepin' an eye out." He showed Holmes a photo on his mobile phone. "Just this man, who stopped for a minute."

You leaned over to look at the photo. 

"He's just drunk," Sherlock commented. 

"Also married with a dog," you added. "No use to us, but what we should really be looking for is a taxi driver." Sherlock looked at you sharply, rather startled by your observation- not the comment about the taxi driver, but the dog. This action did, unfortunately, prove to have a very uncomfortable effect, as his face was only an inch from yours.

You stood straighter awkwardly, and after a moment of quiet, Angelo broke the silence."Come, sit!" He begged, beckoning the three of you to a table. "I'll get a candle so that it's more romantic."

"I'm not his date!" John repeated.

You all sat down. Angelo returned with a candle and menus that he shoved in your faces. "You might as well eat," Sherlock sighed. "Might have a long wait."

"Not really hungry," you replied as Sherlock tossed his menu aside and relapsed into his own dark thoughts. Angelo walked away. "Besides, I prefer not to eat on a case," you continued. "Slows me down."

John looked at you, a tiny bit uncomfortable. "That's incredibly unhealthy. And terrible for anyone physically exerting themselves..." He trailed off, thinking about Afghanistan. Meals were short and simple. People were given three minutes, maybe less, to eat, before it was go time. "But, well, aren't you the bit least bothered- isn't _anyone_ the least bit bothered that we keep getting tagged as a three-way date?" he asked, changing the subject.

You snickered. Angelo came up just then to take John's order, so you didn't have to reply, thankfully. John gave his order.

"Okay, well.... Let's talk about something else, then," John said after a few minutes of silence. Angelo had come with his pasta and John was just finishing it up. "People don't have arch-enemies, for starters." 

Both you and Sherlock turned to stare at John. "Sorry?" Sherlock said.

"There are no arch-enemies in real life. It doesn't happen."

"Doesn't it?" Sherlock huffed. "Real life sounds a bit dull, then. What do real people have, in that case?"

"Friends," John said. Sherlock looked down and you winced. "Okay, I guess not. People they know, though. People they like. People they don't like..." he took a shaky breath, possibly disconcerted at the flickering candle that he hadn't noticed sitting at the table before. Angelo must have put it there without John noticing. "Girlfriends, boyfriends."

"Dull..." Sherlock repeated.

"So. You don't have a girlfriend, then?" John asked, which made you laugh loudly.

"A girlfriend? No. Not really my area."

"Oh. Oh, right." John paused, then said, "Do you have a boyfriend?"

Sherlock regarded John curiously.

"Which is fine, by the way. "

"I know it's fine," Sherlock snapped. 

"So you've got a boyfriend then?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No."

"Right. Okay. Unattached. Like me. Fine, good."

Sherlock turned to stare at the window, but after just a second he turned back to Watson with a concerned look. "John, you should know, I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm not really looking for any sort of-"

"Oh, for goodness sake, Sherlock!" You cried. "He's straight!"

This alarmed John. "Wait, wait," Watson said, "So... are you not? (Y/N)?"

You just stared out the window, pointedly ignoring John's question. You noticed Sherlock smile out of the corner of your eye, and you scowled.

"For goodness' sake, John. If you must know, someone like me prefers to distance themselves from relationships in the first place. Can we please just leave it at that? We need to focus on how a taxi driver is the perfect potential serial killer."

Sherlock sniggered, but his laugh fell silent when he saw your stare out into the street harden. He followed your gaze and looked raptly across the road. John caught on and followed your two's look. He stared.

A taxi had stopped outside 22 Northumberland Street. A shadowed silhouette seemed to be craning to look up at the window from the cab.

"In a taxi! That's clever! Why's that clever?" Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"If you'll draw your attention back to like two seconds, I'll believe you'll find that I mentioned a that someone driving a taxi could- Don't _stare_ at it, John." 

John blinked. "You and Sherlock are staring."

"Well we can't all stare," you told him. Sherlock got to his feet and started striding out of the restaurant. Your eyes were fixed on the cab for just a second longer, and then you yourself stood up and rushed out.

Sherlock and you were racing throughout traffic to the other side of the street as the taxi started driving away. At one point, Sherlock almost got hit by a car, but rushed on, unfazed. The two of you entered an apartment building, shoving past a man and offering no apologies.

You rushed past Sherlock and up a flight of stairs until you reached the top. Sherlock took the lead now, climbing out of a window, and that's when you heard someone racing up the stairs a bit behind you and Sherlock. _John!_

You smiled. Brilliant. He'd left his cane behind, at the restaurant, which meant- ah, but no time to dwell on that, you thought to yourself. The window was empty now. You hopped out and saw Sherlock leaping from one roof to another.

"Hope you've actually got a clue which way you're going! We've got to find that taxi driver!" you called.

"I at least have a better clue than you!" Sherlock paused to shout back. "Not many similarities between Chelmsford and London, especially not the layout, I'd imagine! Not really!"

You laughed breathlessly and jumped across the gaps between buildings in pursuit of Holmes. Suddenly, he disappeared down one wall of an apartment. You reached it, hesitated, and jumped down. 

You were now on a fire escape that you hadn't been able to make out in the dark. You clambered down the stairs and followed Sherlock through a narrow alley, through a door, into a building and out the other side. Sherlock crashed into a man, but didn't stop. Five seconds later, you crashed into the same dude and raced past. You heard him shouting something behind you and hollered, "Sorry!"

At least John stopped to help the man out. Watson was doing well without his cane in the heat of the moment.

Sherlock pelted along a side street. Your legs rhythmically pounded on the pavement as you struggled to catch up. John was yards behind now.

Sherlock busted out the other side of the side street and right into traffic- directly in front of a cab. "Police, pull over, now!" Sherlock shouted. "Open up!" 

"Sherlock, the driver- the driver!" you called, but as Sherlock paused to look back at you, the taxi sped off.

"I got the license number," you said.

Sherlock looked at you, grumpy, as John muttered, "It was basically a taxi that happened to slow down. Not the murderer."

"What? No-" You said.

"They'll be long gone now," Sherlock muttered. "Back to square one."

You stared at him accusingly. "What, am I some pet to impress? Actually _listen_ to me for a second: I got the license plate number."

Sherlock stared at you with his soft green eyes. They had changed color again. "Good on you." He glanced at John pointedly.

He stood confidently without a cane by his side. Under both yours and Sherlock's gazes, he tilted his head. "Sorry, am I missing something?"

Despite yourself, you couldn't suppress a grin. All that running around, just to get John to leave behind his cane. Maybe Sherlock Holmes wasn't quite so heartless as he tried to seem.


	6. A Killer Conversation

Coming into flat, the air seemed to float still as if trouble was about. At the sound of the door closing, Mrs. Hudson came padding to the door. "What've you done, you two?" she whimpered.

"What?"

"Upstairs," you said, looking up at the door at the top of the steps, which was slightly ajar. The three of you exchanged a look.

The group ran of the stairs, John's cane and limp still forgotten. Sherlock in particular burst into the room in a state of panic, to find that Lestrade was sitting in Sherlock's chair, looking through Jennifer Wilson's case. The room had a few policemen rummaging through Sherlock's items.

"What're you _doing?_ " Sherlock demanded.

"Well, I knew you'd find the case," Lestrade answered calmly. "I'm not stupid."

"But you can't just break into my flat!" Sherlock exclaimed indignantly.

"Well, _you_ can't withhold evidence! And I didn't _break into_ your flat."

Sherlock pointed at the people in his kitchen and asked in an aggravated tone, "Well, what do you call this, then?"

"A drugs bust," you replied for Lestrade.

John swung round to face you and stared in disbelief. "A drugs bust?" he repeated in bewilderment. "Seriously? This guy, a junkie? Have you _met_ him? You could search this flat all day, and you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational-"

"John, you probably want to shut up now," Sherlock muttered quietly to the doctor, looking at him sideways.

"Yeah, but come on-" John broke off when he caught Sherlock's warning glare. He gave the slightest shake of his head.

"No!" John gaped. Sherlock's head was low; he looked like a cornered puppy. "You!?"

"Shut up!" Sherlock snapped, affronted. He turned to Lestrade. "I'm not your sniffer dog."

"No, Anderson's my sniffer dog."

"Wha-" Sherlock spun round to the kitchen to find that Anderson was one of the people searching the kitchen. He waved, smiling far too widely to hide that he was enjoying this too much.

"What are you doing here on a _drugs_ bust?" Sherlock demanded.

"Oh, I volun _teered_ ," Anderson answered maliciously.

"They all did," Lestrade clarified. "Not all strictly speaking _on_ the drugs squad, but they're very keen."

"This is childish," Sherlock whined.

"Yes, but we're dealing with children."

Child _ren,_ plural? "I am an angel!" you protested, feeling quite above all this.

"So you set up a pretend drugs bust just to bully us?" Sherlock protested furthermore.

"Stops being pretend if they find anything," you muttered, mood soiled enough that you couldn't hold back your tongue.

Sherlock looked absolutely scandalized, an effect you felt quite proud of yourself for having caused. "I-you-- I'm _clean_. "

"Wonderful! Now, start helping the nice police officers properly, so they'll stand down. I'll be damned if I have to sit out on a case because the only man with a brain for miles was too much of a toddler to keep the police on his side."

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but his jaw snapped shut. You raised a brow. He turned to Lestrade with a grimace. "Fine, yes, okay. I'll work with you properly."

Lestrade looked surprised by that, and even Anderson let out a disappointed noise from the kitchen where he had been peering into the refrigerator. Less snooping for him.

"Perfect!" Lestrade stood up, still looking vaguely shocked. He had the tiniest smile on his face, one that he directed at you, to your confusion. "So, we found Rachel- she's Jennifer Wilson's only daughter."

Anderson scoffed, apparently still on the whole _Sherlock is a criminal and I hate him and I want to snoop in his house and he's a pompous brat and he has a stupid face!!!_ thing. "Nevermind that, we've just found the suitcase!" he said. "According to _some_ one, the murderer has the case...And we found it right here, in the hands of our favourite psychopath.

"I'm not a psychopath, Anderson- I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research!" Sherlock snapped. He turned to Lestrade. "You need to bring Rachel in and question her. _I_ need to question her-"

"She's dead."

"Excellent!" Not quite the appropriate response. "How? When? Is there a connection? There has to be!"

"I doubt it, since she's been dead for fourteen years," the policeman revealed. "Technically, she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter fourteen years ago."

You frowned. Sherlock beside you also stopped, straightened, and took a breath, evidently winded by this information as well.

"Why would she do that?" he wondered.

"Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments? Yeah, sociopath, seeing it now," Anderson grumbled.

"She didn't _think_ about her daughter. She scratched her daughter's name on the floor. She was dying and it took effort- it would have hurt," you reasoned. "She was trying to tell us something!"

"You said the victims all took the poison themselves," said John. "Somehow, he makes them take it. Maybe he talks to them. Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow?"

"Oh, but that was ages ago!" Sherlock told him. "Why would she still be upset?"

John cringed.

"Not good?" Sherlock asked.

"Bit not good, yeah," you put in.

"Sorry." Sherlock began to pace frantically. "Listen, though- If you were dying, if you'd been murdered, in your very last seconds, what would you say?"

John blinked. "Please, God, let me live."

"Oh, use your imagination!" Sherlock scolded.

John clenched his teeth. "I don't have to," the doctor said curtly.

Sherlock paused his pacing, looking at John with a mixture of sympathy and regret.

"But if you were clever," Sherlock said, making a clear though unremarkable attempt to soften his tone. "Very clever. Jennifer Wilson, running all those lovers? She was _clever_ , and she's trying to tell us something."

That's when Aunt Hudson entered the flat. "Is the doorbell not working?" She crowed. "Your taxi's here, Sherlock."

"I didn't order a taxi, go away."

She looked around. "Oh dear, they're making such a mess. What are they looking for?"

"It's a drugs bust, Mrs. Hudson," you said to her, in a matter of fact tone of voice.

"But- but they're just for my hip! Herbal soothers!" She stammered nervously. You shook your head at your aunt with a sigh.

Sherlock wasn't paying much attention- instead, he was pacing like an excited otter.

"Shut up! Everybody shut up, I'm thinking, don't move, don't breathe, Anderson, face the other direction- you're putting me off!" Sherlock ordered.

The policemen all looked Anderson in the kitchen, who looked right back at them.

"My _face_ is?" Anderson asked, appalled. He looked at Lestrade for help, but only received a nod. He turned his back begrudgingly, furious and embarrassed.

Sherlock was still pacing, growing more excited as his thoughts progressed. He was nearly _there,_ he had nearly solved it. You could practically see the cogs turning in his head. You, in the meantime, were preocuppised with something, _something_ you were about to say, at some point, or did say, rather. It was on the tip of your tongue-- or, rather, mind, as it were. "Come on, _come on!"_

"What about your taxi-" Your aunt started to say.

"Mrs. Hudson!" He barked at her. She was startled into silence, but you looked up.

"Oh, shit," you breathed. "Taxi. Sherlock. The-- the taxi driver. She _was,_ clever, yes- cleverer than this lot, and she's dead. You haven't got it yet? She didn't _lose_ her phone, never _lost_ it. She planted it on the murderer! When she got out of the car, she knew she was about to die. She left the phone to lead us to her killer!"

Sherlock grinned. "Oh, thats _brilliant._ "

Lestrade blinked. "How?"

Sherlock whirled around to face him. "What do you mean, 'how?' Rachel. Rachel! Oh, look at you lot, you're all so vacant! What's it like, not being me? Well, except (Y/N), but she doesn't count. It must be so relaxing. _Rachel_ is not a _name._ I've been too slow." He turned to you with an accusing look. "You knew this whole time; you've just been letting me figure it out! Cheek."

_Perhaps,_ you admitted. But the game was on and it wasn't as much fun if it wasn't a game, was it? You stepped closer to Sherlock, lowering your voice leve. "We've got to go," you told him, quiet enough that Lestrade adnd the other officers couldn't hear. You wanted to solve this case completely, to unravel the murderer, and police would just be content to arrest the killer and gather just enough evidence to lock him away. That wasn't _enough_ for you. "The taxi driver is just outside, the murderer is _just_ under our noses, we're so close.... Let's go."

Sherlock shook his head and said quietly, "No. I'm going alone."

"What?"

"You can't come with me, (Y/N)," he reiterated more firmly. "Too dangerous. I can't... You can't get hurt."

"Sher-"

"Listen, we're dealing with a serial killer here. And if you were meant to come along, Mrs. Hudson would have said so when she came to get us for the cab. Obviously I'm the one he wants; I've got to go alone."

You wanted to protest, but knew he was right. "All right. Go."

Sherlock pushed back his chair and made his way to the door.

"Where are you going, Sherlock?" John asked.

"Out. Just need a breath of fresh air," Sherlock said, stepping out. John looked at you, confused. He knew something was off.

You shrugged, offering a smile, and with that, he knew _you_ knew something was off. He hurried to the window, peering out into the night. "Er... He's gone. Sherlock just drove off in a cab!"

"I told you," said Donovan with pity in her eyes. "He does that." She turned to Lestrade. "He bloody left, _again_. We're wasting our time!"

Lestrade looked uncertain. "We-we could phone him."

"Does it matter? Any of it?" She stepped closer to Lestrade, confidential. "He's just a lunatic, and he'll always let you down. You're wasting your time. _All_ our time." 

"Let's just call him, and we'll see-"

"What's the use!?" she snapped. "You know he won't pick up anyway! What's the use? Why do you put up with him?"

Lestrade set his jaw, his gaze hardening."Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man... and with a little luck, he may even be a good one." A reverent silence filled the room, with you included. Sherlock was as brilliant as you, and he'd practically built a religion around himself for it. Remarkable.

Donovan shook her head. "No, it's because we're bloody desperate for that lunatic's help. But mark my words, if we keep listening to him, we're going to end up dead. He's crazy. Like I said, _you're_ wasting all our time. Call it off."

You and John watched helplessly as Lestrade gave in and started to round up the officers, telling them it was time to wrap it up. Less remarkable. John seemed to turn to you for some guidance, to get you to _stop this,_ to get them to stay. He knew something wasn't right. And the fact that you were just letting it happen, watching them file out, only made Watson more uneasy.

But as soon as the last person was filed out, you snatched up your phone, which was now on a rather low battery. You begun to type on it as you said to John, "Sherlock's in danger; the taxi he just got into is being driven by the serial killer."

John's eyes widened with fear and worry. "Sorry, WHAT? What do we do, (Y/N)?"

"We hail a cab of our own," you replied calmly, still swiping at your phone. "We're going after him, of course."

"How!? We don't even know he's being driven! He could be dead already!"

You rolled your eyes. "John, as ever, your lack of faith astounds me. I would never be so dumb as to let go of a serial killer- a real, proper serial killer- without having some means of finding him. Besides, I swiped his license plate number, remember? Grab your coat." You went and held the door open for John.

As he passed through the door, he asked, "What do you mean?"

"I put a speaker and a tracker on him."

"On the serial killer?" The two of you made it out the door.

"No," you replied. "On Sherlock."

<{=:=}>

You'd found the location Sherlock was being taken to and ordered the cab driver to drive you and John there. Now you were holding the phone on speaker out in front of you.

"You've got yourself a fan!" An unfamiliar voice was saying. The taxi driver. 

There was a brief silence before you heard Sherlock's voice say, "Tell me more." 

"That's all you're ever going to know..." growled the taxi driver, "in this lifetime." ****

"Where are we?" Sherlock's voice asked through the phone.

The taxi driver's quiet voice replied, "You know where we are. You know every street in London."

"Roland-Kerr Further Education College." You and John exchanged a look. It was where you'd told your own taxi driver- hopefully not also a serial killer- to drive, so at least you knew you were headed in the right direction. "Why here?"

"It's a quiet spot for a murder. Us cabbies know things like that- surprised more of us haven't branched out," the voice said in a mockingly wistful voice. The man driving your and John's cab looked at the two of you uncomfortably through the mirror.

Not a murderer turned cab driver, then. A cab driver turned murderer. Which means some circumstance in his life had changed. But still... _People don't become murderers on their own overnight,_ you thought. At least, not without the kind of change in lifestyle that would also get you fired from your job. Which meant there was someone else, or something else, influencing the cab driver, urging him to kill.

"You just walk your victims in? How?" Sherlock asked. There was no sound for a few seconds, but then came his voice again: "Oh, dull!"

"Don't worry," the serial killer taxi driver's assured maliciously. "It gets better... But I don't need this with you, cos you'll just follow me in anyway."

A car door opening. Closing. The noise of Sherlock taking a deep breath- he was hesitating. _Go,_ you urged mentally. _Follow him_. 

And he did.

Four minutes later, from Sherlock's perspective, they were in a dark an empty classroom at the top floor.

"What'd'you think? Up to you- you're the one who's going to die here," The taxi driver said, moving to one of the middle tables in the room. 

"No, I'm not," Sherlock replied confidently, though if you had to guess you would say he wasn't so sure inwardly.

The taxi driver only looked amused, which put Sherlock more on edge. "That's what they all say." He gestured for Sherlock to take a seat. 

Back with you and John, the cab pulled up at the college as the taxi driver's voice said through the phone, "Your pretty friend was on my track- she was quicker than you. _Is_ quicker than you."

You grinned. John glared daggers at you, annoyed at your prideful smile when Sherlock's life was on the line. He rushed out of the taxi on the left side, while you exited on the right. Before the two of you stood two buildings. "One each," you murmured. John nodded with a sense of duty. "I'll take the one on the left."

"I like this bit. Cos you don't get it yet, do you?" The taxi driver said through your phone. You looked at John. "But you will. I just have to do... this."

"Okay, go," you ordered John. He entered his selected building, and you yours.

On the top floor of one of the buildings, Sherlock sat tensely in front of the taxi driver, eyeing the two containers in front of him uneasily. "Okay, two bottles. Explain."

The small old man leaned forward. "There's a good bottle an' a bad bottle. Take a pill form the good bottle an' you live. Take a pill from the bad bottle... an' you die."

"The bottles are, of course, identical?"

"In every way," the serial killer replied. "And I know which is which, of course."

"But I don't."

Although the situation was entirely unamusing, the man laughed and sat back. He took off his glasses, pulled out a cloth and wiped them down. "Wouldn't be a game if you knew. You're the one who chooses."

"Why should I? I've got nothing to go on! What's in it for me?"

The taxi driver grinned. "I haven't told you the best bit yet. Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one. And then together, we take the medicine."

Sherlock stared, genuinely surprised.

"I'll take whatever pill you don't," the taxi driver serial killer reiterated, malevolently. "Didn't expect that, did you, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock certainly didn't expect that, no. He leaned forward in deep concentration. "This is what you did, to all of them? You gave them a _choice_?"

The cabbie nodded. "And now, I'm giving it to you. Give yourself a moment to get it together- I want you on your best game." 

"It's not a _game,_ it's chance!" Sherlock scoffed. The cabbie raised an eyebrow. "I've played four times. I'm still alive. It's not _chance._ It's _chess._ It's a game of chess, with one move, and only one survivor. And this-" he slid one bottle toward Sherlock- "is the first move. Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one."

Meanwhile, you raced up a flight of stairs to the third floor. You'd just searched the two bottom floors extensively, but Sherlock was nowhere to be found. You could only hope that John was having better luck, but since you had to turn off your phone on the chance that the killer or his accomplice would hear the voices over it and know you were coming, you were in the dark-- literally as well as not-- and you were getting desperate.

You carefully opened one door and peeked in, then swung it open more. No Sherlock. No murderer. No other doors, leading out of that room, so there was no reason for you to continue searching in that room. You moved on to a second part of the second floor.

Next room. done. Nothing. Moving on.

Back at the top floor, the cabbie leaned forward, staring at Sherlock intently like a predator examining its prey. "You're not playing the numbers- you're playing _me._ Did I give you the good pill or the bad pill? Is it a bluff, a double bluff, a triple bluff...?"

"It's still chance," Sherlock insisted, to which the murderer replied,

"Four people in a row?" Four. About to be five. "It's not chance."

Still nothing. Moving on to the next room. This room had a door in the back. "If Sherlock is already dead, this is going to be very disappointing," you thought aloud as you opened the door. Nothing- and now time to go to the third floor. You pushed against the door at the top of the stairs to continue your search.

"No." You shoved at the door again, to no avail. "Shit, shit shit-- _no_ , _no, no."_

It was locked.

"Shit."

There was no chance in hell the cabbie had the keys to the building. Unless his accomplice did, he wasn't on the next floor.

You had the wrong building.

It would take too long to go all the way down and all the way up the next one, you rationalized, taking the steps two at a time on your way back down. Briefly, you considered jumping out the window into the next building. Considering the layout, it wouldn't be too unrealistic--

Windows. _Duh._ You looked around the nearest room. How many windows were there in each room? In this one, although they were covered by curtains, there were windows on three sides of the room. The two buildings were identical. Sherlock couldn't be somewhere invisible from the outside if the curtains weren't closed, and with any luck...

You marched to the nearest window and threw apart the curtains. A lovely brick wall greeted you. With a growl, you moved on to the next one. _Nothing--_ oh. Scratch that. 

You were in a way, in the same classroom as Sherlock and the serial killer. Just the wrong building. Dr. John Watson was looking through the window of one building and into the other, watching helplessly as Sherlock raised a pill to his mouth. No. Not helplessly. You reached for the gun in your coat, which you'd snatched from John's pocket on the way here. Cheap trick, but as it turned out, quite useful.

Sherlock was holding the pill up to the light as if examining it. "Oh, stop it, you can't _see_ the poison!" sneered the serial killer, inaudible to you. You could, however, see the events unfolding, and cursed to yourself. Never take medicine from a serial killer, hadn't Sherlock's mother ever taught him that? But his curiosity would be pushing him to, you knew. If it were you in his place you doubt you would have resisted much more to the cabbie serial killer's promptings, either. "You just wanted to get one step closer, didn't you? Ever the addict!"

Sherlock glanced away from the pill and to the murderer. Murderer? Is it still murdering if the culprit only told their victims to do the job? Of course it is.

"But this is what you're really addicted to, isn't it? This is the only fix that works. You'll do _anything..._ just to not be _bored_ ," the sinister old man hissed.

Sherlock stared at the pill. One trembling hand slowly raised. "Not bored now, are you?" the driver remarked as Holmes brought the pill drew closer and closer to his own mouth...

And then the sound of glass shattering broke the tension into pieces of simmering panic.

Sherlock nearly fell out of his chair in surprise, but also dropped his pill. The taxi driver across the table was staring in shock at the blood coming out of him and spilling onto the table and the floor. He seemed to be choking, and was clutching at the blood spurting from his chest. He made a flailing grab for the table, but only managed to bring it down with him as he fell to the floor. Sherlock stared at the dying man with shock in his eyes. He looked up with a start to the window, wondering in muffled bewilderment who shot him- who had shot the serial killer!?

But it was too dark to see. Flustered, Sherlock turned back to the killer. He swooped up all of the pills and bottles and compared them frantically. There was no difference! "Did I get it right!?" Sherlock demanded to the dying man on the floor in front of him. "Tell me! Was it the right pill!?" The dying driver only gave the faintest hint of a smile as he gasped for breath. He was never going to tell. Sherlock threw aside the bottles in fury, but then composed himself. He gathered his anger and brought it under his control. "Okay, then," said Sherlock with a frighteningly calm voice, "Tell me this. Your sponsor-who is it?"

The still-writhing taxi driver shook his head faintly. "The one you told me about," Sherlock pressed. "My _fan._ I want a name." The taxi driver only shook his head again in response.

"You're dying, but there's still time to hurt you," Sherlock growled, placing his foot next to the dying man's wound. "Give. Me. A. Name."

"... _No,"_ the taxi driver croaked. Sherlock pressed down with his foot and cabbie cried out in pain.

"A _name! Now!_ " Sherlock repeated angrily. He pushed down on the cabbie's ribs, causing the dying man to scream in excruciating pain, but the wild look in Sherlock's eyes remained as he snarled, " _Name him!!!"_

"Moriarty!" the serial killer broke, sobbing through his pain. 

" _Moriarty!!!_ "


	7. End Credits

Soon after police started to arrive on the scene, you and John you went to go talk to Donovan. The two of you were pretending to listen to Donovan talk about what Sherlock had just been through- or perhaps John actually _was_ listening, but you couldn't tell- when Sherlock walked up with an orange blanket wrapped around his shoulders. You couldn't read his expression.

"Sergeant Donovan's been explaining everything. Two pills? Dreadful business, _dreadful_ ," John said.

"Truly shocking news," you added (un)convincingly. "I hadn't a clue."

"Good shot," Sherlock commented quietly with a mischievous look. 

You raised a brow. "Yeah, it must have been, through that window," you replied. 

"Well, _you'd_ know," Sherlock replied with a wink. "You'll need to get those powder burns out of your finger," he added amusedly. "Don't suppose you'd serve time for it, but best to avoid the court case. You all right?"

"Of course I'm all right."

"Well, you have just killed a man," John sympathized, with far more a casual tone than most people would use.

You elbowed John playfully. "But he wasn't a very nice man," you remarked with a smirk, which earned a smile from your friend. 

"And frankly," he added," a bloody awful cabbie!"

Sherlock laughed at this lightly. "Yeah, true, a _very_ bad cabbie. You should've seen the route he took to get me here." 

The three of you started snickering like little kids, but John made an effort to suppress his laughing. "Stop it, we can't giggle!" he exclaimed through his own tittering. "It's a bloody crime scene; stop."

"Don't blame me _,_ " Sherlock retorted in a joking manner. "(Y/N) is the one that shot him!"

You hit him in the arm. "You could maybe keep your voice _down_ a bit!" That sent the boys into a flurry of giggles, and despite yourself, you joined in. Then you noticed Sergeant Donovan staring from the other side of the lot- too far to overhear, thankfully.

"Sorry!" you called. "It's just nerves!" 

John and Sherlock stopped laughing, but they couldn't keep down their unashamed grins. "Sorry," called Sherlock, not sounding very sorry at all.

John turned to Sherlock, wearing a more serious expression now. "You were going to take the pill, weren't you?"

Sherlock winced. "Of course not. I knew you'd show up. I was playing for time." 

"No, you didn't!" you scoffed. Holmes shot you a warning glance.

"That's how you get your kicks, isn't it? Risking your life to prove you're clever," muttered John angrily.

"Why would I do that?" Sherlock asked. 

You raised a brow. "Because you're an idiot, obviously."

Sherlock frowned, as if affronted, but then a small smile drew across his face. "Too true," he sighed, "But you would know. Shall we get dinner?"

John smiled and nodded. "I'm _starving_." 

"I know good a Chinese, end of Baker Street," Sherlock stepped in, leading the way. "You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the doorhandle-"

He stopped when he noticed yours and John's attention drawn to something ahead. Parked outside the college gates was the same black limo from Mycroft's hostage visit. "Sherlock, that's him," John whispered. "That's the man we told you about..."

Sherlock looked up. "I know ex _actly_ who that is." He started walking toward Mycroft, who had just stepped out of the limo and was now walking toward his brother as well. They met in the gateway and regarded each other coldly.

"So!" Mycroft greeted dryly. "Another case cracked. How very public spirited of you, although that's never really your motivation, is it?"

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock spat. Wow. He _really_ didn't like his brother. Jealousy was definitely a part of it. But Mycroft didn't feel the same way, no matter how he acted. Also, he was a terrible actor. Absolutely terrible.

"As ever," Mycroft said with pain in his eyes, " I'm concerned about you."

"Yes. I've been hearing about your concern," Sherlock muttered, casting a side glance you and John. 

You _tch_ ed. "Did it ever occur to you, Sherlock, that you and Mycroft are on the same side?"

"Oddly enough, no," was his testy reply, narrowing his eyes at you in a clear _stay out of it_ expression.

"You two have more in common than you like to think. This petty feud you have is childish."

"And you know how it always upset Mummy," added Mycroft.

Sherlock scoffed, " _I_ upset her? _Me?"_

"Wait- wait, hold on." John was deeply puzzled. "Mummy? Who's Mummy?"

"Their mother." You stated. "This is his brother."

"What??" John's mouth gaped. "This is your _brother??"_

"Of course he's my brother!" Sherlock replied with distaste, as if the very words on his tongue were too disgusting too tolerate. 

John couldn't seem to be able to wrap his mind around the idea. "So, he's not... I dunno, a criminal mastermind?"

"Close enough," Sherlock sneered hatefully.

Mycroft folded his arms and rolled his eyes. "For goodness sake! I occupy a _minor position_ in the British government."

"You _are_ the British government!" Sherlock argued. He turned to you and John. "When he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis. Good evening, Mycroft. _Try_ not to start a war before I get home- you know what it does to the traffic." He turned on his heel and stalked away, leaving you, John, and the eldest Holmes brother staring at one another. 

"So...." John sucked his teeth. "When you say you're concerned about him, you actually are concerned about him?" 

"Of _course,_ " you answered for Mycroft.

"And it's actually, really, a childish feud?"

"Oh, he's always been so resentful," Mycroft muttered with a sigh.

You laughed and said, "I can imagine the Christmas dinners!"

John nodded. "Yes. No. God, no!"

With a nod and a laugh, the two of you left Mycroft and followed after Sherlock.

"Nice shock blanket," you commented idly as you fell into place beside him.

In response, he slid the fabric from around his shoulders and at your face.

"Oh, please, can you flirt later?" John griped. "We're supposed to celebrate now. We just took down a serial killer! And besides, I'm starving."

Silence fell. You three walked in silence along the sidewalk, until you muttered under your breath, "You're just jealous because your date is talking to someone else."

"I _heard_ that! I'm not his date!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watch out for the next book in the series! I'll be posting it soon.


End file.
